Sleepless
by Zanabism
Summary: Haunted by the ghosts of lost friends and the demons of the past, sleep is sometimes hard to come by in the Everdeen/Mellark household. A collection of oneshots featuring our favorite survivors and what they do when they can't sleep. Katniss/Peeta fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, all.**

**For the past three years I've had to deal with large bouts of chronic insomnia. I can't remember the last time I slept through the night peacefully without waking up or having to lie there for hours before I was actually able to sleep. The worst thing about being unable to rest through the night, besides the god awful side-effects of sleep-deprivation (raging migraines, incessant nausea and terrible chills), is boredom. Rather than a time for rest, the night becomes eight hours of pure **_**nothingness. **_**As of late, I've decided to change that. I commenced my newest blog recently (insomniabound (.) blogspot (.) com, the link is also on my profile) that is literally a compilation of my thoughts as I waste the night away listening to Wolf Parade and Julian Casablancas' sexy voice. It would absolutely make my day if you guys would check it out and comment (: I love hearing what you all have to say.**

**But in addition to the blog, I've decided to pursue a bit of Hunger Games fanfiction, featuring my favorite fictional couple: Katniss and Peeta. This deposit will consist of drabbles featuring our favorite baker and huntress and what they do (together or by themselves) when they are unable to sleep.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize belongs to me. And, no, I didn't make a spelling mistake "colour" means "color." I'm Canadian ;) **

I squinted at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to recognize the girl that stared back at me. She was gaunt and emaciated, her figure lacking the auspiciousness that someone her age should have been able to exude freely. Her hair, limp and washed out, added to her grim appearance. Sharp, hollow cheekbones and the pastel blue smudges beneath her eyes made it seem as if she had taken two knocks to the face. With sickly, translucent skin and eyes that were vacant and lifeless, it was complicated—if not impossible—to determine whether my reflection better personified a corpse or a living, breathing human being.

It was difficult to remind myself that I hadn't always been this way—it was hard to believe that a girl other than the one I was currently staring at had existed all.

_Girl on Fire.  
><em>  
>I snorted.<p>

_More like Girl Washed out.  
><em>  
>I grimaced once more at my pathetic appearance before swishing my fingers under the cold tap water, splashing some at my reflection until the image in the mirror became distorted under the streams of liquid. I turned the tap off and leaned against the sink, closing my eyes for a few moments. My stomach was wrecked and I hadn't slept in a long time, long enough that if the bathroom wasn't so cold and had I not only been dressed in a tank top and underwear, I probably would have collapsed on the floor. I sighed and stood back up, turning away before I could catch a glimpse of my appearance again and walked out of the bathroom quietly, closing the door in careful movements, unwilling to wake the sleeping figure in my bed.<p>

Peeta slept on his stomach, his arm outstretched to my side of the bed, his fingers grasping the blankets. At this point it probably would have been best to wake him up, tell him that I couldn't sleep and crawl into his lap, letting him cradle me against his warmth until somnolence came to claim me. But I didn't want to wake him up. He had been sleeping more and more peacefully lately—something for which I was both envious and grateful—and I didn't want to jinx it by rousing him unnecessarily. Besides, between the two of us, if anyone deserved a decent night's sleep, Peeta won by a landslide. After countless nights of being woken by my screams and cries, there was no one in the world that could need more sleep than him. I took one last glance at the boy in my bed and walked out of the bedroom.

My socked feet, of their own accord, carried me down the hall until I reached the second last door. I remembered Peeta once telling me that when he found himself unable to rest, he would paint until he was tired enough to sleep. I turned the knob and stepped inside, flicking the light on.

I was instantly surrounded by his emanating presence, despite the fact that he was two doors down the hall and buried under an array of blankets. His paintings were everywhere; stacked in corners, propped up against one another, hanging from the walls—canvases of different sizes and different textures litter the ground. Peeta didn't spend much money when it came to personal luxuries, but his art was something he never compromised on.

Bottles upon bottles of pigments were set in rows of no conceivable pattern on the table next to the easel. There was a tray of paints that had already been poured and an array of brushes that differed in width and length. I eyed the plain canvas that had yet to be touched by his artful hands and picked up the tray, contemplating, grabbing a thick brush while I was at it.

I dipped the edge of the brush in bright yellow paint and found myself suddenly nervous. I realized then that I had never done this before—never attempted to emulate what Peeta was able to do so well. I shook off the sudden uncertainty and pressed the brush against the white canvas, curving and shaping and creating. I continued the mindless swirls and tried to let go of the exhaustion I felt, trying immensely to let the tiredness flow through my fingers until it spilled onto the canvas. I dipped the brush in other colours and continued my uninhibited drawing. I could understand why Peeta liked to paint—if nothing else, it definitely was calming.

The past few nights had been worse than usual—I found myself unable to sleep, unable to close my eyes without picturing things that I had no intention of seeing again.

A bloodied horizon.

A town set on fire.

A storm of exploding bombs.

And then of course, _her_.

_Her, _with her shining eyes and bright, beautiful smile. She was everywhere I went, her ghost, her lovely, beatific ghost haunted me incessantly. When I closed my eyes, she was there. When I tried to sleep, she was there. When Peeta was at the bakery and I was alone at the house—_she was there._

My fingers faltered and the brush slipped from my futile grip. For the first time since I began, I looked at my creation rather than continuing with the pointless, swirls and the mindless movement of paint. My eyes widen as I realized what I have made. 

Primroses, a bunch of them.

Crudely drawn, scattered all over the canvas in a manner so haphazard that it's almost difficult to discern one from the other. The sight of them jolted me painfully. The icy fingers of grief slowly wrapped themselves around my heart—getting ready to squeeze. I felt my insides shrivel and burn and the nausea churn in my stomach. I clutch my abdomen, the pain suddenly too much to bear.

"Katniss?"

Peeta's sleepy voice startled me into submission and I'm shocked out of my pain. I whirled around to see him standing in flannel pants and nothing else, a sight that would have woken the butterflies in my stomach any other time, but not tonight.

His blue eyes looked at me with confusion, his mind processing things slower than usual in his just-awoken-state.

"I woke up and you were gone. What are you doing?"

I suddenly felt heat rise in my cheeks and embarrassment washed over me. For a few moments I felt nervous—nervous that he would be mad at me for walking in to this room and using his supplies. After all, this was his sanctuary—his place of healing. Who was I to have intruded his space like this?

"I—I couldn't sleep," I said quietly, setting the tray down on the table.

His blue eyes widened when he noticed the paint on my fingers and he peered at the canvas behind me. I saw understanding flicker in his eyes before they returned to mine. "Were you—were you painting something?" he questions, his voice filled with interest.

Uncertain and still a little ashamed, I stand in front of the canvas. "I-I remember one time when you told me that painting helps you when you can't fall asleep—,"

Peeta chuckled, cutting off the rest of my jittery statement and walked towards me, "And you thought you'd test my theory?"

I blushed furiously, "It was worth a try." I replied, dropping my eyes to the ground and fidgeting with my paint covered fingers. Peeta stopped right in front of me and touched his fingers to my chin, lifting until my exhausted grey eyes are met with his gleaming blue ones. He smiled. "Let me see what you painted." He said quietly, taking another step closer. The fabric of his pants brushed the nakedness of my legs and I swallowed back the discomfiture before turning to face the utter horror that was my creation.

Peeta moved until my back was pressed along his chest and his hands skimmed the tops of my shoulders, down to my arms until they found solace in curves beneath my waist.

His hands on my hips reminded me once more that I was standing only in my underwear and I shivered, pressing myself harder against his emanating heat.

I felt him smile against my neck as we stared in unison at the atrocity and I blushed again, slightly humiliated. "It's horrible—I know," I breathed, getting ready to remove the canvas from the easel, "but we can't all be painters like you. Not all of us spent the majority of the day frosting cakes and practiced making flowers, you know."

He chuckled and hooked his chin over my shoulder, stopping my outstretched hands with his own. "It's not horrible," he murmured, his words dissolving into my skin, "it's beautiful."

I snorted and crossed my arms over my chest. "You've got to be kidding yourself," I said, shaking my head, "Haymitch could have painted a better picture _post_ drinking binge. Not even you can salvage this one."

"Is that a challenge, Everdeen?" he asked in a low voice, his hands sliding down from my hips to the front of my thighs. I held back a shudder and stood my ground, "It's a f-fact." I managed.

He pressed a few more firm kisses to my neck and shoulder before reaching around me for a thinner brush and the tray of pigments.

"We'll see about that. Hold these." He handed me the tray of paint and dipped the tip of the brush in yellow, a darker one than I used, before he got to work.

I watched him closely, still leaning my back against his chest as he worked around my sloppy mess of a painting. His meticulous fingers and, slow, careful hands brushed the edges of the primrose leaves, transforming them from hideous and thick to intricate and beautiful. I was lost in the movement of his arm, the concentrated look in his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest. Everything came together until I was almost drowsy with the warmth of his body and his concentrated breaths. He shifted me closer after a few minutes, his free arm stretching across my waist. I nuzzled into him, my eyes drooping as the minutes passed and my hideous piece of artwork became less and less childlike, the lines evolving from shaky and heavy to delicate and defined.

I was officially awestruck as he put the finishing touches on the flowers. It was hard to believe that a painting before the one he just created had even _existed_. The flowers were beautiful, the details evident and profound—the colours were vibrant and realistic down to the very last minutiae.

With a content sigh, Peeta took the tray from my fingers and set it down along with the paint brush, wrapping both of his arms around me.

"Now, what were you saying before? Something along the lines of '_you can't fix this and it's a fact?'"  
><em>His voice was teasing and the cocky smirk that graced his mouth was incredibly irresistible.

"How did you get so good at this?" I demanded, still completely in awe. Peeta chuckled again, kissing my temple.

"The same way you got so good at bringing down steers and hooking rabbits through the eye—practice."

I scoffed disbelievingly, "No amount of practice will make me as good as you, Peeta."

"It will if I'm the one helping you practice." He whispered suggestively. "If I remember correctly, I _have_ taught you many things in the past." His hands slip beneath my tank top, stirring a fire in the recesses of my stomach, jerking me pleasurably from my haze.

I melted against him as he turned me around, lacing my arms around his neck. He smirked softly at my half-lidded gaze and leaned in until our noses brushed. "Did my regimen work?" he asked, his lips almost brushing mine. "Do you want to go to sleep?"

I tightened my arms around his neck and rose to the tips of my toes, molding my mouth against his. His hands slid from my hips to under my bare thighs, lifting me until I wrapped my legs around his waist. He smiled against my mouth as I kissed him deeper before pulling away to look into his eyes. I was no longer the only one with half-lidded eyes.

"Maybe in a couple of hours," I whisper conspiratorially, reveling in his laughter as he carried me away from his sanctuary and into our bedroom, closing the door firmly behind us.

****

**Did you like it?  
>Did you hate it?<strong>

**Let me know if you'd like some more, and make sure to drop by my blog (:**

**And also, what do you do when you can't sleep?**

**Let me know.**

**Much love, Zanab. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I know, I'm awful. This was supposed to be up, like, a week ago. Sorry about that :/**

**Anywhoo, thank you all so much for the reviews. You all are so kind and wonderful and it's nice to know I'm not the only one unable to sleep at night (: Some of you had some really great tips.**

**Disclaimer: Magnificence and intricacy, thy name is Suzanne Collins. Other than the very apparent insomnia, none of this is mine.**

**Song for this chapter: Sleeping Lessons—The shins (Ha ha.)**

"I swear to God if I cough one more time I'm going to pop a blood vessel, I can feel it." Peeta griped petulantly, his deep voice muffled and nasally. I sighed lightly and ran my hands through his incredibly unkempt hair, my fingers feeling the searing temperature of his scalp beneath my fingertips.

He had been feverish with influenza for the past week with the last two days being the worst ones yet. Peeta had taken to the sick-boy routine with intense vigor, tossing and turning and coughing and wheezing the night away. As of late he was sprawled across the sofa with his head situated on a pillow in my lap. Needless to say, Peeta had a difficult time getting to sleep lately and the fact that he was sleeping less than usual meant that I hadn't been sleeping at all.

I wasn't exactly sure if he'd noticed my lack of rest amidst the hellish sickness. After all, yawns were hard to hear when one was sneezing in intervals of one and two seconds.

"You're not going to pop a vessel. It's just the flu, you're supposed to cough." I reassured for what must have been the billionth time. He frowned at me through slightly hazy eyes, "You don't know that. How could you know that?" he asked accusingly.

I refrained from rolling my eyes. "I was the healer's daughter, remember? I saw this kind of thing during the winter all the time. All you need is some—,"

The rest of my sentence was silenced and vetoed by a round of some very violent coughing from Peeta. I couldn't help but wince along with him, the tearing, painful sound making me cringe. My hands unintentionally moved from his hair to his face, brushing his forehead soothingly as he coughed.

"Holy God. Are you honestly going to tell me that you didn't hear blood vessels popping?" he asked adamantly.

I sighed again. "You should try rolling over, you know. It helps the coughing." I couldn't say I wasn't worried. Despite knowing that what Peeta had was harmless and benign, I didn't like seeing him this way; with burning skin and bleary eyes and taking shallow, shallow breaths. It was all too vivid a reminder of a time when Peeta hated me, when his veins burned not only with transfused blood but also residual poison.

Peeta shook his head. "I like it here. I have an incredibly clear view of your face."

"You'll have an even better view of my face if you weren't closing your eyes all the time because of the coughing fits." I pointed out to him, trying not to roll my eyes at his absurd reasoning. As if my tired, strained face was something someone would want to stare at any way.

Peeta shook his head again, and this time I couldn't stop the frustrated sigh that spilled from my lips. "Please? You'll be a lot more comfortable if you were lying on your side." I murmur to him softly, leaning down and hoping he'll do that thing where he looked into my eyes for a few moments and then succumbed quietly.

Instead of listening to reason and the pleading tone of my voice, Peeta squinted at me suspiciously. "I'll be more comfortable or _you'll_ be more comfortable?" I opened my mouth to respond but was stinted when Peeta hoisted himself into a sitting position, regulating our height differences and making it so that I had to stare up at him to see his face.

His flushed face was coloured with concern, his forehead creasing. "You're tired," he stated, as if just stumbling upon a new revelation. His eyes studiously scanned my face, focusing on the bluish smudges beneath my eyes. He raised his hands to my face and gently brushed his thumbs in the hollows above the panes of my cheek. My eyes closed of their own accord and I leaned into his touch, drinking in his feverish warmth like a drug. I heard him murmur a curse before he tilted my face towards his.

I opened my eyes to see him looking down at me with a mix of worry and quasi-anger. "When was the last time you slept?"

I pulled away from him, shaking my head, "You're the one who's sick Peeta, not me. I'll be fine."

"When?" he asked again, raising his eyebrows.

I sighed and mumbled, "Whenever you slept last was when I slept last."

Peeta exhaled and raised his hands to my face again, tilting it towards his. "You've been so busy taking care of me that I forgot to take care of you." His words were apologetic and I immediately opened my mouth to admonish his guilt, but he spoke over me. "I'm being a bad boyfriend, aren't I?"

My mouth snapped shut as the term left his mouth, an action I'm sure that not even his bleary eyes consciousness had missed. I didn't like his casual use of the word for a multitude of reasons, the first and foremost being that it was such a ridiculously _normal_ term it was almost comical when he applied it to our relationship. We had been known as so many things in the past few years—anywhere from District Partners to Star Crossed Lovers—that the term boyfriend and girlfriend was an ill fit. Peeta was so much more to me than a silly infatuation, he was so much more to me than a _crush_. I wish there was an adequate enough piece of verbiage that could be applied to whatever Peeta and I personified. But then again, I had never been good with words.

I cleared my throat. "You're not a bad…boyfriend." I murmured, staring at the collar of his shirt. Peeta sighed and slid his hands down my shoulders, causing me to shiver slightly.

"I'm not a good one either," he said, leaning forward to kiss my forehead and wrapping his arms around my waist. "Come here." He murmured tenderly, as if it were possible for me to get any closer to him than I already was on the narrow sofa. He laid us back against the cushions, both of us on our sides facing each other, legs tangled, and my head resting on his shoulder. It was a desirable position to say the least. I played with the buttons on his shirt as he ran his hands through my tangled hair. His hypnotic ministrations had me drowsy and ineffably warm within moments, I was yawning and curling myself around him sooner than should have been possible.

"Does it make you remember?" he asked me quietly after a few moments.

"Hmm?" I mumbled unintelligibly, working to keep my eyes open.

"Seeing me sick. Does it make you remember the caves? The…Games?"

Oh.

"Because it makes me remember—being like this." He finished quietly, his words and voice lost in my hair.

I felt myself go rigid as an opus of memories flooded through my mind. His wan smile as I fed him groosling, his effort to hold back cringes and winces as I tended to his torn leg. Not all of those memories were bad, but some of them fingered a nostalgic chord in my chest and the melancholy vibration echoed through my hollow ribcage.

After a long while of not moving, I nod my head against his chest. Peeta expels a sigh. "I hate remembering." He whispered, a touch of pain lacing his voice. I turned to look at him, forcing my heavy eyelids open.

"Then don't," I told him forcefully. "Don't remember a thing. Just stay here." I curled my fingers into his shirt and bring him closer, a desperate note reverberating through my touch.

"Stay here?" he questioned, brushing my temple with his thumb before leaning down to touch it with his lips.

"Stay here with me." I whispered, pressing myself closer, until he had no choice but to press back. He sighed in warm comfort as our connected heat mixed and enveloped us both. A cloud of beautiful, blissful, somnolence spilled over us and I felt myself drift, still holding on to Peeta with all my might.

"Okay," I heard him murmur, far in the distance, already dreaming.

"I'll stay with you."

**Yay? Nay?**

**Cute? Boring?**

**Let me know. Your kind words and feedback make my day so much better than it usually is.**

**Oh, also: I need a beta. Hmu if you want to help me out ;)  
><strong>  
><strong>So tell me, what song do you listen to when you can't sleep? <strong>


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